


we're not so different (you and i)

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fairies, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Boypussy, Breathplay, Crack, Did I Mention Crack?, Dubious Consent, Light Tentacles, M/M, Non-Consensual, Plant sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, fairy!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For many of the fairies that lives here, Utopia is their sanctuary—haven, in other words—and why shouldn't it be? It never rains on this stretch of meadow, the clouds in the skies always pink with interest and it smells like the breaking of spring every dawn and dusk.</p><p>Stiles detest it, the least to say.</p><p>It’s too much and he hates swinging along with the status quo with the other fairies. Yeah, with their blooming shades of colours and the shimmering, silken tunics they don on and fuck, the limitless sparkles. There’s even a new trend going on with the younger generation where they gather allium blooms to form a flower crown, oh—with added glitter!—and it makes Stiles wants to roll his eyes.</p><p>-</p><p>Or the fic in which Stiles is a fairy and wants to escape the horrendous, boring world of fairyland to have an adventure. And by adventure, he means meeting Derek. The plant. Or... not-so plant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're not so different (you and i)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS:  
> \- Dubious consent  
> \- Legitimate non-consensual breath play  
> \- Light tentacles  
> \- There's no plot. Literally. I just wanted to write plant sex *u*

For many of the fairies that lives here, Utopia is their sanctuary— _haven_ , in other words—and why shouldn’t it be? It never rains on this stretch of meadow, the clouds in the skies always pink with interest and it smells like the breaking of spring every dawn and dusk.

Stiles detest it, the least to say.

It’s too much and he hates swinging along with the status quo with the other fairies. Yeah, with their blooming shades of colours and the shimmering, silken tunics they don on and fuck, the limitless _sparkles_. There’s even a new trend going on with the younger generation where they gather [allium blooms](http://garden.lovetoknow.com/image/149747~Allium.jpg) to form a flower crown, oh—with added glitter!—and it makes Stiles wants to roll his eyes.

Scott, his best friend for years running who also holds a higher status among the peasant fairies as he rolls wool for a living, loves it though. He dresses well (with the damn flower crowns), acts accordingly to the law that the royalties of Utopia has issued and lives in a [Camellia](http://garden.lovetoknow.com/wiki/Camellia) with Isaac, his co-partner on wool rolling.

He says it’s not a permanent fixture though, laments that he’s been trying to save up enough ores for the Rose which apparently is his “dream petal” for him and Isaac. Stiles scoffs at him every single time because… _really?_

Stiles gets the romantic gesture (he does despite not being a swooning type fairy) but the upkeep of a Rose is horrendous and the dew that collects on the petals when the sun breaks in the morn is nothing worth a lifetime of ore savings.

Meanwhile, Stiles lives in a shady Dandelion. By himself— _because_ he’s a man who needs his space and it totally cramps his style when he shacks up with his father. Well, that and because his dad recently had taken up fating (fairy dating, man) with Scott’s mother which… _yeah._ He really doesn’t want to accidentally listen in to his father grunting in the middle of the night, sharing mutual orgasms with Mama McCall just a few feet away from him.

Gross.

Regardless, it’s enough though. There’s shade and maybe the occasional withering when the wind blows a little too hard but he’s bought enough sprinkle dust for it grow back within seconds. Although, it means that there are never-ending repairs going on, it’s just fitting for him.

_For now._

Stiles aspires to thread outside the lines of the meadow, find life beyond Utopia. Yeah, he’s heard of it. Not so much studied but eavesdropped into the many conversations that Lydia and Allison share when they’re visiting Scott. They’re the fairest ladies within the common magical people that would put a couple of the royal women to shame with their beauty.

Anyway, they’ve always talked about the existence of life beyond the gardens, where it’s bleak but full of adventures, their eyes always bright with wonderment.

They call it the dirt valley.

Stiles calls it his future.

-

“You’ve _never_ heard the tale of the Haler?” Lydia gasps towards his direction.

Stiles finally managed to gain enough courage to pop a word or two into the withering conversation that she’s sharing with Allison, who looks like she’s been thoroughly distracted the last few minutes _gawkin_ g at one of the muscled construction fairies a few petals down.

“Uh… should I have known?” Stiles says, amused.

Lydia blows her cheeks and she looks cute flustered, cheeks staining—not that he would admit it aloud because it’s called unrequited fove (fairy love, dude) for a reason.

“Only the deaf that can’t hear would be obtuse on that,” Lydia scoffs like Stiles is worse than the wild insects that flitter along the coast of Utopia. “And even so, the kind healers in Utopia have taken up the messy learning of potions to speak with their minds to educate those lousy with the ears.”

“Pardon me lady for I am obtuse.” Stiles bites back sarcastically and give her a beaming smile just to rile her up even more. She crosses her arms and huffs at him. Adorable.

“Don’t annoy her, Stiles. She’s in one of her fairy moods.” Allison quips in and Stiles is startled from input because she hasn’t said anything in the awhile. Lydia glares at her coldly. “ _Fine_ —not moods. She probably needs a sparkle touch up.”

“Ugh, don’t even.” Stiles gags, making a face.

Lydia harrumphs at the both of them and starts sprinkling a dash of sparkle onto her skirt and hair which Stiles just turns his nose away from it. The healers say it’s impossible for fairies to be hypersensitive to it since it’s ‘way of life’ but, whatever.

They know absolutely nothing.

“Now,” He starts. “Enlighten me with this mystical tale of the Haler, my radiant Lydia. It sounds absolutely horrendous and the sun is making it hard to flutter back to my Dandelion. Not that I’m lazy or anything, _psh_. I’m totally…not and would be keen to do just that but you know, the sunrays and magical fairies don’t mesh well. Yeah.”

Allison giggles at that.

“ _The Haler_ ,” Lydia says icily, ignoring Allison’s blatant amusement. “Is what we common fairies call him— _it._ Of course there are other terms that the royalties of Utopia uses, like, ‘Misfortune of the Century’ or ‘Witches that spun The Derekicum’.”

“Derekicum?” Stiles asks, confused. “I’ve never heard of a petal with that name.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Lydia scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Because if you did, you would have heard of The Haler, which you didn’t. Point, logic, Stilinski.”

“ _Righ_ t.” Stiles drawls dryly. “Do continue.”

“You _do_ know who the royalties are, don’t you?” Lydia says suspiciously.

“Um,” Stiles startles, biting his lower lip. He may have lived in Utopia for all his entire life but he has never been very, uh, accommodating with learning what’s within the greens of Utopia. It’s redundant as he knows he’s not going to be cooping up in here for another C* so why bother? Instead he says, “Sure. Of course. Who doesn’t right? I mean, they’re like… totally, uh, what’s the word? Cool. Yeah, let’s go with that. Cool fairies, man.”

“Oh, Stiles.” Allison says, shaking her head while smiling. Stiles grins back thinly at her.

“You’re helpless.” Lydia says, justified and Stiles shrugs because hey, she speaks the truth. “The royalties of Utopia are titled The Hales and they have covered the lands of wealth and magic for years descended. They’re a big family with many ancestors that carry on with sons and daughters to take over the throne of the kingdom until the sun never shines and Utopia perishes.”

“So, you mean like, never?” Stiles jokes.

“We have high hopes for the royalties to make Utopia last an eternity so that’s why most of us don’t judge their laws and their dictatorship.” She says wisely but her tone is thick as though the words settle on her tongue like sickly sweet pollen. “They lead, we follow. It’s… custom.”

Stiles hums, nodding. “But you don’t believe it?”

“Well, a lady never shares.” Lydia retorts and gives him this grin that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand. Not in the nice way. “Anyway, the story is that for the past century, there’s a son of the immediate descendent of Hale who wanted to change the practice of Utopia’s laws. He had a vision that was wiser than all scholars combined—which the faes from down under of Utopia didn’t like. There were too many changes to be heeded and they just… put a stop to it.”

“They killed him?” Stiles gasps, throat dry. He’s rapidly blinking his eye, feeling the moisture collect at the corners, because fairies that are put to death has either led treason to the royalties or have murdered their own kind however, to kill a royalty, ones with the pureness of blood?

That’s… Stiles has no words because that’s unthinkable, makes his wings grow heavy with sadness.

“No, you fool.” Lydia remarks. “Have you not listened? _Derekicum?_ Gotperished to the dirt valley to live a life of nature _._ ”

“Oh,” Stiles gathers when it knocks together in his head then he grins sheepishly. “Well, that’s good. I mean, not splendid for that guy but like, you know. Death. Ugh.”

“We’ve got a real philosopher here, Allie.” Lydia tells sarcastically, looking at her nails that—oh, _surprise!_ Has glitter on them.

Allison gives him a small smile that appeases him from Lydia’s blunt remark. Hey, when a gorgeous fairy sends you a small shared smile, it helps a lot with the self-esteem. A real boost. His wings flutter happily at which Lydia rolls her eyes and mutters, “Whatever. I’m surrounded with despicable hopelessness.”

*C = Century

-

A few moons have pass since then but the interest that piques in Stiles for The Haler tale has not lessen instead, it scorches to the point where he determinedly flutters down to The Farie Creeves and takes up some light reading on it.

By light, it means that Stiles has scoured through every available shelf in there for information which, apparently, there isn’t much available. He’s asked around too, especially with the fairies who work at The Farie Creeves but they all think that it’s a travesty, sure, but the Faes done well with this horrid, wise man.

Stiles splutters at them.

He goes to visit Lydia after a fortnight at Scott’s petal where he’s streaming wool to dry on lines for a new tunic while Isaac is out searching for more cotton plants.

“Oh thank gods, you’re here.” Stiles cheers exasperatedly which Scott snorts with a wave. “Not you bro but I like that you think that way. I’m up for a threesome anytime.” He waggles his eyebrows which Scott pulls a face, disgusted. “Anyway, Lydia, hello!”

“Just my luck.” She bristles and rifles her hair that makes some of the sparkles fall and flitter until they land on her bosom area—the valley of tits. “Why are you disturbing my peace again, Stilinski boy?”

Stiles lets it roll off him because Lydia, man, fove and all that crap. “I’ve been, uh, searching for more information about The Haler and well, I can’t find any. Yes, I’ve checked at The Farie Creeves, they have zilch. It’s atrocious, really.”

“And you’re interested because…?” Lydia questions curiously, brow raising.

“Okay, I know it’s going to sound silly but—” He jostles and looks at his feet, trying to buy time. “—well, I think this could be the adventure that I’ve been waiting for the past two centuries. I just, _well_ , am done with Utopia. I want out.”

She looks at him calculatedly and Stiles feels bare under her steady gaze. It’s actually… frightening. “What’s in it for me?”

“Uh,” Stiles stutters. “You can live vicariously through me? That sounds fun.”

“And you’re delirious.” Lydia scoffs. “I want in.”

“Nuh-uh. Nope.” Stiles chokes out, flabbergasted, eyes widening. “No can do, Ms Martin. You’re needed in Utopia—an essential, the next true practitioner. I can’t do that. No way, and who knows what lies at the Dirt Valley? You may die, you know? I’m not an essential; sure I’ll be missed but not as thoroughly.”

“Alright then,” She says, tilting her chin up and closing off. “I have no available information to be passed on. Have a nice flutter back to your petal, Stilinski.”

Stiles grumbles. Lydia continues being nonchalant, crossing her legs and there’s the faint glint of a challenge bright in her eyes. He relents.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles states. “But we’re going on our separate ways once we exit Utopia. The Haler— _Derekicum_ —is my adventure, not yours. You find your own brutalized fae-type banishment.”

“Please,” Lydia says mockingly, laughing behind her hand. “There are more tales than just the one I’ve spoken of that you’ve overheard. Come, we’ll talk in private. Scott may be an honest man but I’m sure he wills some alone time with the preparation of my clothing and when Isaac returns.”

Scott chokes out a pained laughter, “Not cool, Ms Martin.”

Stiles cackles at his best friend’s anguish.

-

They leave when the full moon arrives because that’s only when majority of the royalties retreat back to their castle in Utopia and the valiant knights and ladies return to their petals for rest as their higher status are safe in a common place.

Stiles and Lydia sneak out from the south gates of Utopia where they have both cleverly conspired after nights of observation that it’s the least guarded entrance/exit as the portal’s energy is wilting from centuries of working.

They’re honing in their excitement as they swoosh their bodies into the bubbling transmission, duo wings fluttering stealthily from the dark greens of Utopia until they transport into the russet bleach of the Dirt Valley.

It’s not that it’s… illegal, in terms, to leave but they are often for fairies that have strayed the Utopian ways and has been sent by the faes to test their loyalty in the wilderness of the Valley—by which it means that they probably have caused treason thus, death.

Yeah, Stiles rather not have death as impertinent.

When they’ve finally flown to a point where their wings are starting to feel the weight of exhaustion, the muscles at the hinges that connect to their back get sore and weary and they have to squint their eyes to see the glittering shine of the portal, they finally land on the ground.

Stiles is tapping his foot, feeling the rough edges of sand and rock pebbles that digs through the satin of his slippers.

“Gods, we did it.” Lydia gusts out and her cheeks are pink with exertion although she still looks particularly immaculate, not a strand of hair out of place. “Can’t believe that I— _we_ —actually did it. You’ve got balls, Stilinski.”

Stiles snorts because if only she knew. “Yeah, sure thing, Lydia. Now,” He says. “I’ll be on my merry way and you’ll hopefully be clever with the treacherous roads of the Valley.”

“Of course,” Lydia indicates smugly and then leans in to him to give a light pat, awkward one arm hug which Stiles politely reciprocates with far lesser grace. “Thanks for… you know. Allie is great and she shares the same views as I do about Utopia and the outsides but she wouldn’t do it. The meadow is her home and she loves it too much to throw all that away for _this_.”

“And some people say you can’t be kind.” He teases and then laughs wetly when she pouts. “I’ll miss you, Lydia. It’s… disheartening that we only became friends for a short time because of circumstances.”

She stays quiet for a beat before squeezing him on the shoulder, agreeing. “Yeah, I know.” They share a small grin, “Away with the fairies?”

Stiles nods, “Away with the fairies.”

-

Being on the lookout for a petal that no one has seen or encountered before is difficult, especially those that lingers outside the lines of Utopia, in between the coast of Dirt Valley and other areas beyond. There are hundreds of them; countless actually, some Stiles have read up on and others unknown that he gets so engaged to looking at.

He’s seen ferns that are thrice the size than the ones in Utopia, big enough to shelter at least ten fairies during the rise of night’s sun. Or the blooms of Marigold, sickly sweet with its smell, that hide along the cracks of the Valley, an assortment of colours instead of the catching oranges he’s used to.

It’s different—the wilderness of Dirt Valley—and he soaks up in it.

-

Stiles has been wandering in the forestry of Dirt Valley for at least a full moon now and he’s covered almost all of the large areas in it. The previous burning enthusiasm for adventure is slowly wilting away, a thick layer of resignation crawling under his pale skin with each time he flutters his wings to continue his journey.

That’s when he decides to approach the area of Dirt Valley that he’s been putting off—the one that sounds a lot like rain and tastes like mildew at the back of his throat when he passes by it.

It’s an obscure area, hidden behind thick leaves and vines, and there’s a spot of sunray that shines at the opened top, staring down to a large waterfall that crumbles into a still lake. He feels immediately relieved that it isn’t rain—something about wet weathers just puts him off. There are also beds of flowers and nuts that litter the mud along the lake, a thick smell of nature assaulting his senses.

Surprisingly, there are no insects that live here either, just the wash of water barrelling wetly into the lake and the staccato of his heart thrumming in his ears.

He stays there for a few rotations of the day’s sun, exploring as much of the area he can when there’s light.

A sweltering day heaps upon him and Stiles decides to strip down to just the thin strip of cloth that hangs loosely at his hips, covering the private areas of his genitals. The bareness of his unclothed body welcomes the humid air immediately, moulding onto the large expanse of skin with sweat and there’s perspiration dribbling down at his temples. He’s wiping it off with the back of his hand when one of the petals from his peripheral catches his attention.

Stiles has never seen it before, not with the many rounds he’s made and he’s pretty certain he has thoroughly scanned through this area. He hovers above it warily; wings’ flapping noisily as he keenly scrutinizes it. It’s unlike most petals he’s seen, bright and alluring the fascination of either fairies or insects with its homely attribute—this petal is the entire opposite.

The mane of the petals are lightly folded in and dark like the night’s sky, with a light splash of vibrant red on the insides, like angry strips of paint, and it has a heavy base beneath before it connects to the stem.

“Interesting,” Stiles hums, baffled.

He descends slowly into it, blatantly ignoring the basic survival instincts that are yelling in his head, it’s almost like he’s put into a daze. The petal dips with his weight and clumsy landing as he gathers his balance on the balls of his feet on the soft strip of ground that has gathered fallen pollen.

Now that he’s surrounded within the petal, he observes many things simultaneously. Instead of the usual greeting of caramelized scent of how flowers usually are back in Utopia and the various ones he’s contacted since his welcome to Dirt Valley, it’s of a pungent thick smell of musk and nature which Stiles can’t stop himself from inhaling deeper with each breath, head growing heavy with each assault.

He carefully stalks around the petal, letting his eyes get accustomed to the immediate differences he spots. A shudder breaks out from him when one of the hairy filaments brush against his naked lower back, something that reminds him like a gesture whenever they’re trying to reassure another fairy for comfort—an intimate action.

Stiles shrugs it off but soon, the unusual scent thickens, palpable with each inhale Stiles takes and he knows it’s the center of the petal that’s radiating this smell—the pistil.

The tip of it is blood engorged red, flushed, and there’s a small pooled collection of moist pollen that looks too much like lubrication than the sweet nectar that he’s accustomed to.

Intrigued, he approaches it with small steps and there’s a steady hum at the forefront of his mind that is chiming drowsily that this is the petal that he’s been  looking for all this while, his sole adventure— _the Derekicum._

When he’s near enough, he can see the vein-like membranes that twist and spiral along the shaft of the pistil and Stiles should be intimidated by it because he’s never witnessed any other petals having that but instead, he feels a low heat turning in his abdomen, clenching and taut.

“Gods,” He murmurs, so reverently and eyes glazed. “What type of petal are you?”

Obviously that’s a wrong question to say it aloud because one moment his feet was firmly on the ground, the next he’s being hefted by the twirling vines of the stamen, curling around his wrists and ankles as it lifts him up.

Stiles is choking out the high pitched scream that’s stuck at the back of his throat as one of the anthers from the stamen is curling around his neck like a scarf, wrapping it just tight enough that he feels a tinge of suffocating at the edge but not overly much that he can’t breathe right.

“D-don’t— _oh gods_ , please don’t eat me.” Stiles stutters, wetness gathering at his bottom lash line because of all things to die from, it’s a carnivorous petal. “To death. I’m a fairy! I’m pretty sure we don’t taste nice. Like, _ew_ fairies, right?”

There’s a puff of wind that rifles through the petal, swaying the flower forth and then back which sacrilegiously reminds him like a mocking scoff. Stiles shivers from it, nipples pebbling and peaking from the sudden intrusion of cooled air that runs through his body like sparkled shock.

Desperate, he tries to pull away, wings fluttering in distress as he fidgets around so that he could loosen the threaded rings of the filaments that are secured tightly on his body.

It doesn’t help at all, instead he thinks it got amused (or angered, he really doesn’t know anymore. Can petals even feel emotions?) because one of the last stamen that’s been playing quiet, goody two-shoes at the other corner slinks its way near him, wrapping around his waist in three rounds, tightening.

“I’m going to die. This is it. My amazing adventure is going to end because of my own stupidity.” Stiles slurs as he tries to keep his tears at bay even though the musky scent from the pistil is getting even more empowering, overwhelming his other senses which is driving him into a lucid state.

He gazes up slowly and notices the pistil is not currently throbbing— _throbbing_ —how the fuck? And it’s thicker than before, swollen at the tip and it’s constantly dribbling moist pollen down the shaft and Stiles, he doesn’t know _why_ or _how_ , but he has this burgeoning urge to taste it.

To have that weird smelling nectar coating against his upper palate while he’s bounded in this state.

The petal must have then noticed his resignation of trying to escape because he’s been staying slumped over for the past few minutes, trying to reign in the labouring breaths that he can’t seem to control, when the stamens start shifting again, inching around.

They spread apart his legs, the jerkiness of the movement making him whine aloud in pain because Stiles has never been too flexible of a fairy and despite screaming for it to stop; it never relents until he’s pulled tight at the insides of his thighs, muscles threatening with a burst of pain.

The anther that was circled around his neck tightens a little and Stiles feels his heart lunge for those few seconds until it loosens and Stiles coughs violently, his whole body shaking with it.

“Please, don’t.” He pleads pathetically despite knowing it falls to deaf ears.

It’s only when the pistil starts to approach him that he clenches his eyes shut, trying to hone in the whimpering noises that’s escaping his lips because this is it. The end for him.  However, instead of devouring him, the head of the pistil drags across his chest, wetting his nipples and the soft, fuzzy line of hair at the base of his stomach with the smear of pollen.

His breath hitches because it’s warm—that ooze of moisture—and he glances down to the pistil, watches how it’s trying to cover most of the bare expanse of skin with that thin layer of lubrication until it reaches down his groin. It slithers against his pubic mound and Stiles feels the drawing horrification because he knows what it’s trying to do—the petal doesn’t want to eat him.

It wants to _fuck_ him.

He yells bloody murder.

The petal probably senses his sudden distress and instead of relenting, it swoops down to his cunt, probing around his lips. Stiles yelps, trying to flinch away from it but with no avail because he’s held up tight, secured by the stamens, and all his flailing isn’t helping one bit at all.

He weeps, feeling the tip of pistil slicking against him, running from between his ass cheeks and then dipping up to the tip of clit, nudging it in lazy flicks until it pokes out between his mound. The revolting disgust he feels earlier soon gets replaced in a lazy haze of arousal—doesn’t know why, thinks it’s probably the petal emitting a kind of magical dose  that tires all norm conscientious thinking..

Regardless of the how wrong it is, Stiles feels the familiar lubrication he’s gotten used for the past C that his pussy makes when it gets turned on, feels the tightening at his abdomen as he squeezes tight around the thin muscles of his entrance.

The head of the pistol probes around his opening, teasing, and Stiles chokes out a whine. His body is overload with emotions and wariness that flitters and shudders through his body with each passing second until he feels it pushing inside him.

He gasps wetly, “Gods—I—”

Stiles is still a virgin. Has never been sexually intimate with any of the fairies back in Utopia although he’s played with himself before, but this? This is better than his fingers and whenever he sits on one of those vibrating leaves until he feels that tight twist of pleasure shooting from his toes and numbs his body with adrenaline.

It’s steady and slow as it enters him and he can feel the pistol throbbing against the walls of his cunt, feels it buzzing down to the filaments that are still tightly bounded on his body, and he feels the fullness of the intrusion down at the base of his stomach—unwelcoming and painful.

He feels humiliation crawling to his fingertips as he’s displayed so vulnerably right now, bare naked and legs spread open while a plant is twisted deep inside and around him but that’s quickly overrun by the renewed vigour of arousal that pumps from his brain to his cunt. He feels overheated, dry and keening at the throat, wet and pleading in his pussy.

The pistil drags out slowly, reverently, and then slams into him that Stiles gets shot forward but the stamens have him gripped securely that he feels the impact _inside_ the walls of his vagina instead, the burn of being stretched so fully and too quickly and that’s when it just keeps going—chasing his cunt like a rave fairy that hasn’t fucked in too long.

“Don’t—” Stiles gasps out and chokes off. He doesn’t know what words should come next after it. Don’t do this to me? Don’t _stop?_ Instead he presses his lips together and makes weak, muffled noises as it fucks into him, brushing against the tight sensitive walls of his pussy.

His first orgasm takes him by surprise, gets punched out of him when the pistil slides out of him and then starts to rub furiously against his clit until he’s a trembling mess, trying to bury his shouts into his shoulder but failing. The barrel of the pleasure waves vibrates through him, his toes curling and uncurling before the pistil returns to his entrance again, gathering the evidence of his orgasm before it shoves itself back in.

Stiles’ body is sheened with sweat and can feel the droplets of it dripping down from his hair to his shoulders and then onto the outer parts of his wings. The familiar rotation of movement continues, rough and unrelenting, fucking into his small frame until he’s a groaning mess of oversensitivity and a torn page of bittersweet pleasure.

His second orgasm builds though, the unfurling of heat and want that clenches through him. Stiles reckons that the pistil can feel it, notices the way his breath starts hitching when it pounds at an angled way and he can already feel the wetness of his cunt gradually building, welcoming the spiral of his release.

He just needs a little something— _more_. More this, and that, and everything. Against his clit, against his peaked nipples that feels so sorely ignored and that’s when the stamen around his neck tightens impossibly that he feels the catch of when his breath leaves him, clutching at the air passage just right and then he screams.

“Fuck! Oh gods—” Then the orgasm barrels through him, his entire body shuddering and shaking from the shocks of it as he pussy clenches down against the pistil, having it fuck his way through his orgasm until he’s at his last contraction, that’s when it stills—then it fucking _fills_ him.

Stiles feels the warmth of pollen? Nectar? _Come?_ He doesn’t know anymore, shooting thick and in rhythmic spurts inside his pussy, filling him, and he’s gasping, struggling for breath when the stamen finally releases around his neck, the filaments around him loosening a little which he sighs out in relief.

The pistil slowly drags out, wincing from the sore ache and then the heavy dip of his stomach when he feels it dribbling out from his pussy, slowly first and then gushes out of him like water and against the pollen bed beneath him. He’s still gathering his breath, energy—fucking senses—when the filaments gently descends him back down, letting him go.

Stiles immediately falls to his knees when he’s being released, body quivering as he’s still recovering from the aftershocks of his last orgasm and suddenly, the familiar burst of fresh scented petal welcomes his nose—balmy and reminds him of Utopia—that he closes his eyes, the exhaustion creeping up until he eventually dozes off.

-

He wakes up in different petal and he’s almost certain that it was just a dream but when he takes a glimpse down to his body, it’s still bare and his thighs are sticking together with a white dried-like substance and against his chest are barely there flakes of pollen.

Also, his pussy feels like it’s just been excruciatingly violated so… _yeah_. Not a dream.

-

When he finally manages to get enough energy in his small body again, Stiles kicks his feet off the ground and his wings start to flutter noisily as he tries to find the petal yesterday—he has a right mind to flick some sparkle dust on it just so it would teach it a lesson, like, non-consensual intimacy but when he finally comes around to that area—there’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing but grass and mud. Stiles sighs dejectedly.

“Looking for something?”

Stiles yelps, spinning around him as he clutches onto the front of his thin layered tunic, reigning in his shallow breaths. “Gods, don’t you ever know that it’s not polite to sneak up to a fairy?”

The man eyes him weirdly and Stiles almost wants to face palm because the dude is also a fairy—except, instead of the usually normal, colouring slightly translucent wings that are common in Utopia, his is a start, opaque black, with splashes of red at the tips.

“I apologize, then.” The guy says, roguishly. “I’ve been waiting for you to return as we did not have a proper conversation last night. Well, I _couldn’t_ —until now, which I still need to impart my gratitude to you.”

“Wait— _what?_ ” Stiles says, confused, trying to shift a few spaces away when the guy flutters closer to him.

“Uh, last night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister confuse-me-a lot.” Stiles retorts, impish humiliation reigning in as he remembers exactly what happened last night. “But I don’t think we’ve met before currently—and you’re the first fairy I’ve spotted since I left Utopia a full moon ago.”

“You’re from Utopia then, I reckon?” He speculates and then he starts laughing, just softly, but still. “I’m Derek.”

“—Derek?”

“Yes,” He says, giving him a small smile that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “Derek Hale.”

“Wait—Derek. Last night?” Stiles murmurs, thinking out loud. “Oh gods, you’re _Derek_ icum? You— I— We—”

Derek laughs and Stiles feels a shiver down his spine, “The one and only.”

“I got fucked by a plant, which is you, but you’re actually a really gorgeous fairy?” He blunders out loud and then resolutely covers his mouth. “I’m sorry. Gods, even a month living away from Utopia, I still can’t stop blabbering.”

“It’s okay,” Derek assures and then he approaches him a little more, the familiar scent of musk and earth and nature that he smelt before in that petal now more unobtrusive. “I quite like it.”

“Oh?” Stiles says. “Well, um, good. For me? Or you, I guess.”

“Definitely for us,” Derek tells and his eyes darken, pupils thickening against the assortment of greens and yellows which makes Stiles gulps. “Now, not to be a prude, but I would like to show you my gratitude.”

“…Sure?” Stiles lets out warily, a gust of air leaving him when Derek pulls him by the waist.

-

Derek’s act of gratitude is fucking him dry and then soothing him with his tongue. Although Stiles may have liked how intense those orgasms he had with the petal, or Derekicum, the ones he shares with Derek, the fairy, makes him see those horrendous sparkles.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've lost it... :|  
> Also lol @ the ending. I literally wanted to write just plant sex but then the first 3k words just decided to fuck with me.


End file.
